


The Future Stretched Ahead

by panfriedeggs



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bobby Singer to the Rescue, Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester Use Their Words, Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kid Fic, Parent Dean Winchester, Pre-Season/Series 01, Stanford Era (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:21:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23719606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panfriedeggs/pseuds/panfriedeggs
Summary: Dean didn’t roll his eyes, but he was getting pretty damn tired of people assuming he didn’t know how to use a condom.Dean receives a baby via monster-stork. Life follows.
Relationships: Bobby Singer & Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & John Winchester, Dean Winchester & Original Female Character(s), Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 36
Kudos: 166
Collections: Stanford-era





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank-you again to Fancy_Pants for her endless cheerleading. Writing is just better with someone to celebrate your terrible first drafts.

The scene he walked into was ghastly, but Dean hadn’t really expected otherwise. The dead woman lay on her back in the dirt beneath the branches of a towering oak tree, eyes frozen open and red blood trailing from green lips. The _something_ perched between her spread legs had torn open her abdomen with its teeth and pulled out a bloody, screaming baby.

“Put it down, _now,”_ Dean ordered. He kept his gun on the monster, but couldn’t shoot it with the baby so close.

It didn’t listen, but shuffled out from underneath the shadow of the branches, still hunched over the baby. In the light, Dean saw four limbs, two eyes and sharp incisors in a mouth smeared with gore. Its skin was rough and striated like tree bark, and—except for the red on its face—dappled green and brown.

“Hello Dean Winchester,” it said. Its voice was eerie, pitched like a woman’s and rough like a chronic smoker’s. Though its pronunciation was clear, the last syllables of his name trailed, as if it ran out of breath.

Dean tensed. That was not a good sign. Monsters smart enough to imitate human language were smart enough to _plan,_ and Dean didn’t need his Dad to tell him that his research had some _massive_ fucking gaps. Worse, it knew his _name,_ so it probably knew where he was staying and that he was on his own and, _fuck,_ this was going to get _very fucking ugly._

The thing looked at him steadily. “Our child would have died, if I had not pulled it from the womb.”

Dean felt like he was going to vomit, there were so many things wrong with that statement. “ _Your_ child,” he said incredulously. Indicating the dead woman, he asked “What the hell did you do to her?”

Still looking straight at him, it said “Not ours and hers. Ours and yours.”

And then: “Come meet your daughter.”

* * *

The first thing Dean did after getting out of the forest was rob a baby store. It was dark by this point and the place was deserted, so it was the work of minutes to disable the alarm and cameras. Clothes, diapers, wipes, carrying sling, bottles, special newborn formula—he wasn’t sure if the extra $11 per package made a difference, but screw it, it wasn’t like he was paying anyways—all went into a large duffel bag.

_It's a lie, it’s a lie, it’s a lie,_ he chanted in his head as he worked. Shit, that poor woman was probably missing from a hospital, and any minute a grieving husband and a pack of police officers were going to bust him with a bloody baby and then he’d be doing life for kidnapping and murder.

Dean had left the woman’s body where he found it, no salt, fire or burial. He’d regretted that even before he’d left, but the baby was still crying and naked and it was getting cold. He hoped that her ghost would understand, wouldn’t fault him for choosing to wrap her kid up in his leather jacket and high-tailing it to safety. He hoped he wouldn’t be back here in a few years with lighter fluid and matches.

He strode past, and then strode back to a shelf with soft, plush animals and shoved a purple elephant into the duffel.

_It’s a lie,_ Dean thought. _But what if it isn’t?_ That was the doubt that stopped him from dropping the baby off at the nearest hospital and speeding away as fast as Baby would go.

The kid looked human enough. Dean wasn’t exactly an expert on newborns, but she looked pretty much like the babies on _Dr. Sexy,_ just maybe a bit runtier and more pissed off. But if she wasn’t, there was no way he could just leave her with unsuspecting civilians.

And then there was the other thing Dean was trying very hard not to think about. The baby _couldn’t be his._ No matter what that thing had done to that woman, _Dean_ had definitely never seen her before this night. Dean had it on pretty damn solid fucking authority that dick in pussy was a pre-requisite to baby making. Although… he always used condoms, and he’d had some—okay, fine, _a lot_ —of hookups, which he had exactly zero shame about, except it made it pretty easy to go through his trash…

…And now he was thinking about how a monster could have stolen his jizz, _Jesus fuck_. He brutally cut off this train of thought before it did permanent damage and finished his looting.

What he needed were answers _._ He knew with unshakeable certainty that he would see it again. A monster didn’t just leave their kid with a hunter for no reason.

Dean couldn’t find a car seat that looked like it would work with the Impala— _fuck, when were car seats even_ _invented?_ —so when he drove off, it was with the baby cradled in his lap.

* * *

The drive to Sioux Falls was nine hours. On his own, Dean could have knocked it out in a day, no problem. Unfortunately, the kid needed to eat and poop every two hours and started wailing if she thought Dean wasn’t paying her enough attention. He ended up dragging the trip out to three days, just to spare his ear drums.

On the plus side, nobody seemed to be chasing them. No missing persons reports, no news reports about a grisly murder, no police cars patrolling the highway out of town. It was frankly suspicious, and something else he needed to research when he got to Bobby’s.

It was definitely a good thing, though, because the sheer amount of attention the baby got would have made it impossible to hide. Diner waitresses and motel clerks cooed over her the entire way, even when she was alien-faced and banshee screaming. Dean kept his story as straightforward as he could— “just taking my daughter to see her grandfather” and “yeah, it’s just us, her mother isn’t in the picture”—and still scored more phone numbers and free pie than he normally would have in three months _._

One overly tenacious waitress kept walking by to pet the kid’s fuzzy blonde hair while Dean was feeding her, making him eye her suspiciously and slide further into the booth. He figured this was how goats felt when being stalked by Chupacabra, and surreptitiously chucked salt at her. Just in case.

In the early evenings, he’d park them at a motel and read aloud from the copy of _The Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care_ he’d stolen. His captive audience made a good attempt at Sam’s bitchface.

“Sorry kiddo, I get that it’s boring, but this was all I bothered to steal,” Dean said. “I haven’t bothered with this stuff since Sammy was a baby, and anyways, I wasn’t taking care of him when he was as shrimpy as you.” The baby spat on his shoulder, then scrunched up her face in preparation to cry. “Hey, hey, no need to cry over it,” he tried cajolingly. “You’ll be thanking me when you don’t get diaper rash.”

Dean had started monologuing on day two, after he’d driven an entire day with her crying piteously in the background. He just didn’t feel right ignoring a crying person, even if said person was incapable of speech and possibly not a human. He would have felt embarrassed—hell, he _did_ feel embarrassed—except that all those waitresses and receptionists found it _panty-droppingly_ hot.

Not that he could have taken any of them up on it, what with the kiddo needing him constantly. “You’re just a tiny _Catch-22,_ aren’t you?” he told the baby, staring at the latest waitress’ ass after his third coffee refill. The baby just snuffled, and Dean pretended he didn’t find that adorable.

The nights were the longest. She was waking up almost every two hours to eat, so Dean tried to keep her on the mattress beside him for easy access. But sometimes she would get too agitated to sleep, so he’d lay her on his chest, arm curled around her back so she couldn’t roll off, and let her listen to his heartbeat. Her body was a soft, comforting weight that he hadn’t felt since Sam stopped crawling into his bed, that he hadn’t realized he’d missed. He’d hold himself unnaturally still not to wake her.

When Dean finally pulled into Singer Salvage Yard, it was with a makeshift car seat rigged into the backseat—“Sorry, Baby, I’ll make it up to you,” Dean had said, wincing as the seat tore at the Impala’s upholstery—throw up on every single one of his shirts, a kid who’d been working herself into a rage for the last ten miles and a purple elephant watching him judgementally from the backseat.

“What the—?” Bobby, who’d met them outside, looked at the baby, then looked at Dean’s bloodshot eyes, and asked, “Who the hell did you knock up, you idjit?”

* * *

Bobby was silent for a long time after Dean’s explanation, his beer forgotten on the kitchen table. Finally, he asked, “Have you called your father, Dean?”

Dean looked away. Thing was, he _knew_ he should have called Dad right away. Whatever was going on, Dean knew in his gut it was going to be big. A little backup would have been _awesome._ But John Winchester was an uncompromising man who saw everything supernatural as a threat. He and Sam used to get into fights about that, with Sam arguing that _supernatural_ wasn’t the same as _evil,_ and Dad retorting that they didn’t have time to put the fucking poltergeist on trial before it killed somebody else. Dean was never completely sure if Sam really believed that, or if he just didn’t want to believe something that Dad believed. Though he’d never been dumb enough to get involved in that argument, if asked four days ago, Dean would have sided with Dad.

On his lap, the kid was blowing spit bubbles, finally happy after a diaper change and a bottle. Dean spent a moment noticing just how _tiny_ her fingernails were, before shaking his head. “Bobby… If it’s true, you _know_ what Dad would say,” Dean said.

When he and Sammy were learning to shoot, they’d set up targets using whatever garbage they could find—old cans, rotten fruit, broken dolls, anything that wouldn’t ricochet. Dean thought about setting her up like that—putting her on an out of the way ledge, taking aim at forty, maybe fifty yards to test his range—and he just couldn’t. He didn’t think he could have done it three days ago, and he knew for sure he couldn’t do it now. Bracing himself for Bobby’s judgement, Dean continued, “Even if it is true, I don’t think I can kill—”

“Son, lemme stop you there,” Bobby interrupted. “I ain’t John, and I can’t fault you for what you _didn’t_ do,” he said, eyeing the baby. “You know he and I didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things.”

Relaxing a bit, Dean gave a huff of laughter. “That’s putting it lightly. The last time we were here, you chased us off with a shotgun.”

“I chased _him_ off,” Bobby corrected. “You and your brother can stick around.”

“You didn’t hear? Sam’s off at college, been there two years now,” Dean said.

“I heard,” Bobby said, looking keenly at Dean. “But that doesn’t mean he ain’t still welcome here.”

“Thanks Bobby,” Dean said around a lump in his throat. It must have been the sleep deprivation, but he felt pathetically grateful to have Bobby Singer in his life.

* * *

“So has she done anything unusual?” Bobby asked from the doorway while Dean gave the kid a bath in the sink. Hilariously, it turned out that Bobby was one of those people who were afraid that babies would deflate if you breathed on them too hard, so he kept a wide margin around her at all times. Since Bobby hadn’t even once complained about the crying, Dean refrained from making fun of him about it, but he did get a kick out of plopping her down on Bobby’s lap when he least expected it. So far, the record was twenty-three minutes before Bobby’s panicked swearing got Dean to retrieve her.

“Not according to Dr. Spock,” Dean replied.

“Who?”

“He’s the author of—never mind,” Dean said quickly. “The point is, Baby’s doing perfectly normal baby things. Aren’t you, Baby?” That last bit was directed at the kid, since his new narrating habit hadn’t died off even with an adult around to talk to. Bobby got a weird look on his face whenever he caught Dean doing it, but whatever, it was supposed to be good for her language development. He drew a hard line a baby talk, though. Mostly.

To Bobby, he added, “Haven’t noticed any fangs, glowing eyes, or murdered woodland creatures.”

“Huh,” Bobby said.

Dean looked up. “What does that mean?” Then, figuring it out, he demanded, “What did you find out?”

Bobby rubbed his hand across his mouth. “One of my contacts found the mother, pulled her medical file. Her name was Maria Rossi.” Staring at the kid, Bobby continued, “Dean, she was a cancer patient. She’d had a full hysterectomy couple years ago. She couldn’t have had a baby. Shouldn’t have been able to carry it.”

Dean felt his heartbeat pick up, but kept his voice steady. He lifted Baby out of the sink and patted her dry, working around her flailing limbs. “So what does that mean?” he asked again.

“It means, we gotta find somebody to ask,” Bobby said steadily. “Found out what that thing you saw was.” He flipped open a book to show Dean a woodcut of a monster with bark-like skin stepping into the trunk of a tree.

“That’s it,” Dean said sharply.

“It’s a dryad,” Bobby said, “a tree spirit. The good news is, they can be found wherever trees are found. That’s also the bad news.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean said.

* * *

Dean and Bobby spent the next week figuring out a strategy for finding a dryad and getting information from it without getting murdered. Trying to interrogate something was turning out to be a lot harder than just shooting it and setting it on fire, which was Dean’s usual (and preferred) approach.

Dean could do research and planning, he just didn’t _like_ it, so when he and Dad and Sam were still together, he’d been happy enough to leave it to his giant nerd of a baby brother. Now though, he was even less helpful than usual. He didn’t know how since she slept eighteen hours a day, but Baby absorbed every waking moment of his life, _and_ some of the sleeping ones.

He and Baby were sharing Bobby’s guest room. Baby had her own empty-drawer-slash-crib, so she was mostly sleeping alone now, but Dean still got up about a million times a night. In a way, it was almost worse—he kept stubbing his toe or tripping over air when he’d jerk out of bed at her cries. The elephant with its stupid purple fur and stupid beady eyes mocked him every time. Dean wished he’d stolen a less hypercritical animal.

Bobby, the coward, was no help at all. He _ran away_ every time he heard so much as a hint of a cry. Dean begrudgingly accepted that he’d be constantly covered in puke.

All together, they’d been at Bobby’s for just shy of three weeks before they had a working plan: they’d need a bunch of herbs, torches, some chanting, tree sap— “Seriously? Can’t we just buy maple syrup?” Dean asked. “Shut your mouth and hand me that tree tap, boy,” Bobby replied—and the light of the full moon. Simple.

And then Dean got up one Thursday morning after a night of fitful not-sleeping to check if the tarp he’d pulled over Baby—the car, not the kid—was still in place. As he blearily turned to head back inside, noticed Bobby’s front door and froze. Something had carved deep into the wood a set of coordinates, and a date: May 2nd. _Sam’s birthday._

Shit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, since I forgot to mention it. The story is complete, except for editing! I'll aim to post a chapter a day.

“You have to call Sam,” Bobby had said. “The thing knows about him, so he’s already involved.” And when Dean had still hesitated, Bobby added, “We need the backup—someone has to stay with the kid, and you’re a damn fool if you think you’re going out there alone!”

So Dean called Sam. He paced and fidgeted with this ring while he waited for Sam to pick up. The last time they’d spoken, he and Sam hadn’t fought, but the tense, strained conversation was almost worse, each of them trying to avoid loaded subjects—hunting, not-hunting, school, Dad—which unfortunately was almost all of them.

When Sam finally picked up, Dean spoke right away, his voice terse. “Sammy. You need to come to Bobby’s.”

Sam’s response was fast and annoyed. “Why, hello Dean. So good to hear from you. I’m doing great, thanks for—”

Dean didn’t have time for this shit. _“Sam._ I am _not_ fucking around,” he interrupted.

“Neither am I,” Sam snapped. “I thought I made it pretty clear that I’m out, I’m not going to help you and Dad—”

“This isn’t about that! _I_ need you to come to Bobby’s,” Dean said, as close to pleading as he could stomach. If Dean was being honest with himself, this was the real reason he hadn’t wanted to call. He didn’t think he could handle it if Sam said “no.” Sweetening the pot, he gritted out, “If you need money for the flight, I’ll ask Bobby to send you some.” He hated to do it, but was pretty sure Bobby would understand, and he could find some way to pay him back later.

Sam was silent on the phone for a long moment; he wasn’t an idiot and he _knew_ how Dean felt about handouts. “Dean, what’s going on?” he asked seriously.

Dean felt some of the tension drain out of him. Thank God, Sam was taking this seriously. “Not on the phone,” he said. “Just, you need to be here before your birthday.”

“Okay. Okay, shit—that’s two days, that’s not a lot of time. I’ll find out when the next flight is and—”

“Great,” Dean said, trusting Sam to handle the details. “The sooner the better.” Then he hung up.

* * *

“Oh my God, Dean, you got someone pregnant?!” Sam said accusingly. He’d arrived at Bobby’s the next afternoon after taking a red-eye, and now stood gaping at Baby where she was sprawled out on Dean’s chest, the both of them trying to catch a nap on Bobby’s couch.

It was not the most auspicious start to Sam’s visit, but Dean had maybe three hours of uninterrupted sleep last night. He could handle this calmly— “Shut it, bitch! I didn’t get anyone pregnant,” he shot back defensively—or not.

“Oh, so am I just _imagining_ the baby? _Why do you have a baby_?”

“Both of you, quit your hollering!” Bobby yelled, but too late.

Baby objected with an ear-splitting wail. Dean winced. “Okay, we deserved that,” he said trying to shush her, and got up to settle her in their room. Sam’s face settled into his _I’m-a-judgemental-asshole-and-your-life-choices-were-terrible_ look as he watched them leave, but he mercifully kept quiet. Dean didn’t have the energy to argue with him. “Bobby, just explain it to him,” he said on his way out.

Proving that he was as bitchy and difficult as ever after two years at Stanford, Sam’s expression wasn’t any less constipated when Dean came back into the room twenty minutes later.

“So, a dryad handed you a baby, and what, you just took it?” Sam asked incredulously.

Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s a _baby,_ Sam. I couldn’t just leave her there. What the hell did you think I’d do?”

There was a beat of silence.

“ _Jesus_ Sammy,” Dean said, staring at his brother, hurt.

“That’s not what I meant, Dean, I know you wouldn’t hurt a kid,” Sam said firmly. His conviction made Dean relax. “It’s just, Dad—”

“Yeah, well, Dad and I didn’t agree on a lot of shit,” Dean said bitterly. “And you’ll notice, he ain’t here.” He and Dad had started splitting up more and more about a year after Sam left. Dad would assign him a bunch of routine cases while he disappeared on some secret solo hunt, only giving him a rough return date. He’d bluntly refused all of Dean’s offers and demands to help, and _damn_ if that didn’t burn. When they finally split up for good, he hadn’t been surprised—it was almost a relief to rip off the band-aid.

“No, I guess not,” Sam said, and then dropped it.

* * *

They spend the rest of the evening hashing out the plan for tomorrow. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to plan—they were walking into a trap, and they knew it. The monster knew exactly who and where they were, had picked the time and location and was fucking _everywhere._

“Fuckin’ trees, dude,” Dean griped. The coordinates led to a wooded area about eight hours out from Singer Salvage, driving and hiking. There might be some trails, but Dean doubted they would lead anywhere close to the designated spot. They would probably be bushwhacking, which Dean despised—give ‘im open, paved road for Baby any day.

They couldn’t even just _not_ walk into the trap like a bunch of idiots, because as Sam bitchily pointed out, “The door was an _invitation,_ Dean, and if we ignore it, they probably won’t be so polite next time. If they wanted us dead, we would be.” And that was the absolute truth. Bobby’s house and grounds were warded and salted to high heaven, and the thing had walked right past all of it. Which also ruled out setting up a counter-trap, since they couldn’t properly secure a place and there were just too many unknowns about dryad behaviour.

“I ain’t ever heard of a dryad attack before Maria,” said Bobby. “My books don’t say much, ‘cept that they usually avoid people, and that they stick close to their trees. In the mythology, men used to take them as wives.”

“Trust me, Bobby, nobody was taking that thing as a wife,” Dean replied.

The only good thing about this was that Bobby, bless his paranoid heart, had a _flamethrower_ in his shed. If the worst happened, Dean was going to start the mother of all forest fires, so _suck it_ , trees.

It was late when Sam found him in the kitchen, nursing a beer. Baby was asleep for now, his weapons were prepped, the Impala was packed, and all there was left was to wait. Dean hated this part. They’d decided to leave in the morning to try to avoid having to fight in the pitch dark on top of everything else. They both should have been sleeping.

Dean eyed Sam a bit cautiously. The day had been—easy, both of them falling into the rhythm of preparing for a hunt and Bobby and the kid never more than a room away. It was almost like Sam had never left. Though they’d almost had a fight over who would stay behind with Baby. Dean had wanted it to be Sam— “It’s a fucking trap, Sam, and you’re out of practice!”—and Sam had bluntly refused— “You didn’t call me here to babysit, Dean, so don’t you dare try to leave me behind!” Bobby had looked back and forth between them and wisely stayed out it.

Privately, Dean was glad Sam had insisted. Out on a hunt, he and Sam were just _in tune_ , barely needing to talk. Dean was far better with Sam at his back than with anyone else, including Dad.

He missed his brother like a limb, most days.

“There’s beer in the fridge,” Dean said. Sam nodded, grabbed one and sat down beside him, not saying anything.

“Are you worried about tomorrow?” Sam asked suddenly, breaking the quiet. At Dean’s glance, he added, “You don’t usually tell me to stay behind.”

Dean thought about it. He wasn’t, overly. Not more than any other hunt, anyways. That said… “You said you wanted out, Sammy. I’m trying to respect that.”

Dean didn’t think about it much, but he knew he was going to die young. Hunters didn’t die of old age or disease, not if they stayed in the life. He just hoped that the thing that finally got him _killed_ him, didn’t leave him paralyzed or a vegetable. To keep doing the job, he had to believe he was immortal, or conversely, that every case was his last. It wasn’t something he consciously chose, it was just… his life.

But Sam wasn’t like that. Sam was building a whole sitcom-style, apple pie existence outside of hunting, with a fancy job and a house and maybe a wife and kids one day. He couldn’t throw in _everything,_ not like Dean could.

Sam looked like he was trying to figure something out. “Is that why you haven’t been calling me as often?”

“Thought you’d want it that way,” said Dean blandly.

“Why would you think that?” Sam asked, sounding confused and a bit aggravated. “I left for college, Dean, I didn’t leave you.”

And Jesus Christ, was Sam really going to make him say this out loud? Dean would rather pull out his own hair, but he tried to stay matter of fact. “C’mon, Sam, what do you think’s happening? You’re building something for yourself, something normal. But no matter how it shakes out, _I won’t fit there_.” Dean glared at him and continued tersely, “You really want me there, telling your boss ‘bout that time I shot at a guy breaking into our motel room? Or telling your in-laws ‘bout that time I got mauled by a werewolf?” The best Dean could hope for was to be the poor, embarrassing hick brother, and that was still miles better than them thinking he was _insane._

Sam just stared at him. Then he said, “Dean, that’s the _dumbest_ thing you’ve _ever_ said,” skipping from confused right to pissed off. “It doesn’t matter who I marry or where I work, you’re my brother, you’ll _always_ be my brother. I just want you to call me!”

Dean kept quiet. One day, even if Sam didn’t know it yet, Sam was going to stop picking up, and that day was going to be _agonizing._ He didn’t bring it up though, as if not mentioning it could put if off for a bit longer.

“Did you think I wouldn’t come?” Sam asked instead, looking wounded.

“Figured you might be busy,” Dean said, gazing nowhere in particular.

Sam made a noise like he wanted to bitch Dean out some more, but then changed his mind. “Just promise me you’ll call, Dean.”

Dean exhaled slowly. He didn’t think it’d be that easy, but if Sam wanted to pretend, he could pretend. “Okay, Sammy.”

They finished their beers quietly.

“Hey Sammy?”

“Hmm?”

“Happy Birthday.”

* * *

The morning of, Dean woke up early to feed Baby one last time. When he was finished, he put her down on his lap to talk.

“Okay, kiddo, I know I’m your favorite, but you be good for Bobby, you hear? He’s jumpy and crotchety, but he’s doing his best. And he’ll do right by you, whatever happens today.” Looking her sternly in the eyes—open, for a change, and green—he added, “Don’t give him too hard a time, unless he tries to put you in that onesie with the elf booties and the ruffles. You’re way too cool for that.” Seriously, the thing was hideous. Dean couldn’t believe he’d stolen it, even in his panicked state. Baby tried to kick him in the face, which he took as agreement.

“Great, let’s shake on it.” If anyone asked, he’d deny it, but this was possibly his new, most favorite thing to do: Dean pressed his finger gently against her palm and felt a million kinds of sappy as she griped him tight in her tiny fist.

There was a cough from the doorway, and he looked up to see Sam and Bobby staring at him with equally gooey expressions.

“Dean, you ready to go?” Sam asked softly.

Dean cleared his throat, his face red. “Uh, yeah,” he said, and put Baby down on “her” spot on the couch, which had been carefully secured and cleared of clutter.

Bobby looked at bit like _he_ was the one walking into a dumb, leafy trap, so Dean picked up his book that he’d pulled out of his bag that morning and handed it over. “Here, in case you have questions.”

“What’s this?” Bobby took the book in two hands, then stared at it wide-eyed like it was the Holy Grail. “God dammit, boy, you had instructions this entire time!?” he accused, scowling.

“Uh—”

“Just get the hell out of here,” Bobby said while Sam laughed.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re going.” Dean took one last look at Baby, and then he and Sam were off.


	3. Chapter 3

Well, this has gone to hell, Dean thought sourly. He and Sam were surrounded, their backs against a cliff wall and trees towering around and above them. Monsters—Dean spotted a few dryads, but there were other things, too, moving too fast for him to identify—growled and lunged out to snap at them from all directions. So far, Sam’s gun and Dean’s flamethrower were keeping them at bay, but they were rapidly losing daylight and the increasing gloom was making the monsters harder to spot. He went to switch to his gun for better range—fuck, the last one had got close—when something spoke.

“Please stop. All of you,” said a low male voice. The monsters backed off, though begrudgingly. Dean shot off a final spout of flame at something that looked a few degrees off from a bear as it tried for one last bite, then dropped the nozzle and swung his sawed-off up to point at the shape emerging from the trees.

A torch lit about fifteen feet away from them. Holding it was a suspiciously normal looking man—short hair, medium build and dressed for a day at the office in a trench coat, collared shirt and fucking _tie._ He could have easily passed for human, except he smelt faintly of ozone and when Dean blinked his eyes, he saw an afterimage as if he’d been staring at a lightening strike.

“Who the hell are you?” Dean growled.

Ignoring him like an asshole, the man said, “I apologize for my companions. They were overzealous and angered by your weapons. Especially the fire,” he added pointedly to Dean. “I won’t ask you to drop them, but I promise you that no one here will harm you unless you try to harm them first.”

Dean glanced quickly at Sam and got a small shrug in return. Together, they lowered their guns, but didn’t put them down.

The man smiled softly. “I know you have questions. Ask.”

“You’re telling us you set this up for our benefit?” Sam said warily.

“Yes,” he replied plainly. “I know you’ve been trying to find me, but summoning me can be… unwise.”

“Why? What _are_ you?” Sam demanded.

Looking almost apologetic, the man said, “I was an angel of the Lord.”

Right, a _delusional_ monster, that was a new one. “Angels aren’t real,” said Dean flatly. The man—the thing—angel— _whatever_ —just smiled more broadly as Dean brought the gun back up. It creeped him out—nothing on the other end of his shotgun should look that damned fond of him.

“They are, but I won’t waste time trying to prove it. Ask your questions,” the supposed angel repeated. “I’ll answer them as truthfully as I can. In return, I ask that you to listen with an open mind to a story I’ll tell you.”

“Fine,” Dean said, irritated but playing along. “Us first. How do you know us?”

“I won’t answer that.”

“Dude, seriously?”

“I said I’d be truthful, not that I’d tell you everything,” the angel said blandly.

Sam lobbed out, “What’s your name?”

“I’d really rather you didn’t try to summon me,”

Dean made a disgusted noise. “This is useless.”

“Hardly,” the thing said dismissively. “Ask what you came here to ask.”

Dean hesitated, just a moment, but long enough to notice Sam watching him worriedly in his peripheral. He didn’t know if he wanted to hear this answer. What would he do, what would he _have to_ do, if it turned out the kid was a werewolf or a rugaru? Dean wasn’t even sure what the _good_ outcome here was. “Who’s the kid?” he finally ground out. “ _What_ is she?”

“Mostly human,” was the easy response, as if the thing just didn’t get what the big deal was.

“So what the hell’s the rest of her!?” Dean snarled, instantly furious. He was getting pretty sick of this asshole’s habit of ignoring what he didn’t want to answer, and any minute now he was going to shove a bullet in him, stand-off be _damned._

Now the thing looked concerned. Gazing at him keenly, he asked, “Dean… Does it matter? She’s _yours.”_

“Bull. Shit.” His heart was pounding, his mouth dry. Beside him, Sam looked like he wanted to reach out and grab his shoulder, but that would be a stupid fucking thing to do when they were still surrounded by a thousand things with very sharp teeth, so he squared his shoulders and said, “That’s _impossible—”_

“It’s not,” the angel refuted implacably. “You can take her to a human doctor and have them check, if you don’t believe me. The ‘how’ is unorthodox, but the child is a… refugee. I brought her here to be safe. I asked Maria to help me give her form.”

“What did you do to that woman?” asked Sam, face hard and hands steady on his gun.

At that, the thing with a man’s face looked grieved. “I know you won’t believe me, but I asked Maria’s permission to use her body. She was a brave, self-less woman who saved a child.”

He was right, because Dean really didn’t believe him. Off-balance and even more pissed off because of it, he indicated the monsters surrounding them. “And them? Why did they help you murder her?” he accused.

The angel frowned. “The dryads aren’t monsters,” he said. “They keep to themselves and don’t feed on humans. They’re only involved because they’re interested in staying alive.” The angel tilted his head as if considering his words, then continued, “When the child is grown, they hope to ally with her. They hope that she will save them.”

“ _What?”_ Dean wasn’t sure who said it first, but Sam’s face looked just as incredulous as his felt.

For the first time, the angel seemed reluctant, like he was a doctor about to deliver a fatal diagnosis. “There’s something… biblical coming. The dryads have felt it for a long time, and they’re worried,” he said, staring intensely, unblinkingly at Dean. “I need you to listen to my story now,” he continued gravely, “it’s about the legions of heaven and hell—” 

“Sounds boring,” Dean interjected, and Sam hissed “ _Dean”_ in a clear _shut up._

“—and your mother.” Dean stopped cold.

Looking intently at Sam now, the angel said, “And demon’s blood.”

* * *

They’re silent on the drive back to Bobby’s, both of them reeling. Dean shook himself out of it at around the four-hour mark, stopping at an all-night truck stop for coffee and fuel. He knew without asking that neither of them wanted to stop a at motel.

He bought a couple of extra-large coffees and headed back to the Impala. Sam was in the passenger seat where he’d left him, staring blankly out the window.

“Sam, here.” Dean shoved a coffee at him. Sam took it, but didn’t bother to drink it. He didn’t say anything. Dean wordlessly got them back onto the road. He’d give it another twenty minutes before he started prodding.

This was harder on Sam than it was on him, and it was plenty hard enough on him. Angels might want to send him to hell, but Sam was the one some mega-demon wanted to wear as a meat suit, which just _no._ Dean was going to hunt that bitch down, rip out his entrails and set them on _fire._

Still, the longer he let Sam stew, the more and more messed up he’d get, until he ran off and tried something dumb. Sam’d done it before.

“Sam. Sam, talk to me,” Dean said, glancing at him.

Sam took a deep breath, still staring a nothing. “I need to break up with my girlfriend,” he said woodenly.

“You have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah. Her name’s Jess. I’m painting a giant target on her back.” Sam fell off silently.

“…We don’t know how much of what he told us is true.”

“But it makes sense, doesn’t it?” Sam finally looked at him. “I thought Dad was just obsessed with getting revenge, but if he was afraid something was after us, it makes sense that he moved us around like he did.”

Dean thought so too, but that wouldn’t help Sam right now. “Look, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We can call Dad and check the demon blood story, at least.” He saw Sam flinch and pretended he didn’t. “And if Mom’s family was such a big deal, Bobby must of heard of them. Just… don’t give up yet.” Dean reached across to grab Sam’s arm. “He said he told us to warn us. That means we can get ready, protect ourselves. Don’t give up your life just yet, Sam.”

Sam wasn’t saying anything, so Dean kept talking. “We’ve got time, years even. Bobby and I will start researching stuff.” Anti-possession sigils, devil’s traps, wards to hide from _angels_ because it turned out they were _dicks—_ the list was as ridiculous as it was long. “You go back to school.”

“You’re worried about _school_ right now?” asked Sam incredulously.

“Yeah,” Dean shot back, “because it’ll keep you from doing something stupid.”

“I thought you didn’t want me going to school.” Dean really didn’t, but even he could tell he was being selfish, and Sam deserved better. 

“Shut up, Sammy. You want it, that’s what matters,” he said, watching the road. “And you’re going to be awesome at whatever you do.”

“It’s _Sam._ And I was planning on a being a lawyer.”

And okay, Sam would be a great lawyer, he loved researching and rules and shit, but… “Did you really have to pick the most boring job in existence?” The dork. “Please tell me that the other wannabe lawyers are at least hot.”

Sam snorted at him, but he was looking more like his usual prissy self and less like a zombie, so Dean would take it. “Jess is doing pre-law with me.”

“Oh, so is _that_ why—”

“You know, not all of us think with our dicks, Dean.”

“Dude, if you knew the kind of _thinking_ my dick could do…”

“Gross Dean, I really don’t need to hear it…” Sam started his usual round of insults about Dean being a walking venereal disease, and just like that, Dean could relax.

* * *

It was early morning when they arrived back at Bobby’s. Dean heard Baby the moment Bobby opened the door. Sam was—not good, but better, and had even managed to nod off for a couple hours in the car. He was stumbling on his feet, half awake, but he jerked upright at the crying. Bobby looked as haggard as they felt, and grunted something that vaguely resembled “get in.”

Sam shuffled straight to bed, but Dean paused in the living room where Baby was on the couch. He didn’t try to touch her, just stopped a few feet away and _looked_ at her. She was only a month old, still a red-faced, squishy bean-like thing. Was she going to look like him? Did that angel _make_ her look like him? What exactly was involved in giving a person a form, and why did it seem so obscene?

Bobby eyed him carefully. “What the hell happened?” he asked.

Dean shook his head. “Just… not now, please. Gimme a few hours. Can you watch her?” He ignored her crying and headed to the guest bedroom without waiting for a response.

When he woke up, it was early afternoon and he could hear Sam and Bobby moving around in the kitchen. He got up slowly, took a long shower, shaved carefully and started repacking his bag before admitting to himself he was stalling.

He’d missed the kid. He wanted to see her. But from here on out, it would be different, and the sheer enormity of the responsibility was boggling. In the month he’d had her, Dean hadn’t made any long-term plans for Baby. Not that he was gonna leave her in front of an orphanage or anything, but they’d had to figure out what she was, first. Now though…

Call it a gut feeling, but he didn’t think the angel was lying—what would be the point? His story was way too convoluted, but it mostly just seemed like he wanted Dean and Sam to protect themselves. Though he was adding _angel truth serum_ to the research list anyways, because not knowing anything about the dude while he clearly knew Dean _really well_ was creepy as all hell.

But stalker or not, the angel was also annoyingly right—if the kid was his, then it really didn’t matter to him if she was only “mostly human,” she was still family. Anyways, after last night, he had his suspicions about what “mostly” didn’t cover. And if it turned out she wasn’t a monster, but _monstrous_ , then he would deal with it one day, one way or another, because it was still better than leaving it to someone else. In Dean’s mind, family was for better or for worse. Though right now, the “worse” included calling Dad up and trying to _explain_ all this.

Dean closed his eyes and stopped packing. His stuff was as organized as it could get, and he was… resolved. No more hiding. Even that stupid elephant looked approving, for once. Plus, he was starving, and all the food was in the kitchen.

Bobby was sitting at the table with a mound of books beside him, so Sam must have already filled him in. Sam himself was awkwardly holding Baby and doing a weird, two-step shuffle while she bemusedly tried to eat his floppy hair. Dean cleared his throat from the doorway. “Is there any more coffee?”

And gratifyingly, Baby turned immediately towards his voice and _smiled,_ waving her arms and making tiny excited noises. Something in the general vicinity of his heart went all melty, and he couldn’t help but smile back. Damn, his kid was cute.

“There’s a fresh pot,” Sam said. “I’ll get you a cup if you take—oh God, she’s escaping.”

Dean rescued the kid before she could launch herself onto the floor and traumatise Sam for life. “Hey kiddo, you miss me?” Baby squealed happily. Yeah, he was totally the favorite, he thought, smiling into her hair. He put her on his lap and reached for the remains of lunch. Sam and Bobby were looking at him as if they were waiting for a freak out, or maybe an explanation, so he cast around for a diversion. Speaking of which…

“Urgh! Bobby, how could you put her in this?”

Bobby scowled. “You’re the one who stole it! ‘Sides, it’s the only clean thing she’s got left.”

“I did her laundry before we left! How’re you out of clothes?”

Bobby looked a little shifty-eyed and muttered something about feeding times and vomit. Baby shoved the tip of an elf booty into her mouth and sucked.

“Don’t worry, Baby, we’ll find you something cool to wear later,” Dean said around a bite of sandwich.

“Oh, so you’re going to put her in flannels and a tiny leather jacket?” Sam snarked, putting down Dean’s coffee.

“See, you think you’re making fun of me, but that actually sounds _awesome,_ ” Dean replied. He paused, but then barreled on. “Kid’s gonna be as cool as her old man.”

Bobby, bless his ornery heart, just nodded. “So, you’re keeping—?”

“Yeah,” he said, and neither Bobby nor Sam looked surprised. Damn, was he really that predictable? He shoved another bite of sandwich in his mouth for something to do.

“I’ll go talk to some people about getting you both some new IDs, good ones,” Bobby said.

“Thanks Bobby.” He thought about Maria Rossi, who’d maybe died willingly, but still horrifically. He could at least do this for her. “I was thinking ‘Maria,’” Dean said, and stroked his fingers through Baby’s— _Maria’s—_ fine hair.

“Oh thank _God,”_ Sam exploded, and even Bobby leaned back in relief.

Dean jerked his head up. “What—?”

“Dean, we thought you named her after your _car_ —” Bobby started, while Sam said “I know you love _Dirty Dancing—”_

“Screw you, bitch—”

_“_ —but Patrick Swayze is not a good enough reason—”

“—I do _not_ love _Dirty Dancing,_ it’s just _on_ all the fucking time.”

“—hell, I can’t even believe you named your _car_ ‘Baby.’”

“—to name your kid ‘Baby.’”

Dean glared at both of them. Assholes. “You keep that up, Sammy, and I _won’t_ be naming her ‘Maria Samantha,’” he sulked.

That stopped Sam’s bitching. “’Maria Samantha?’” he repeated, voice a little wobbly. And oh no, the giant girl, was Sam gonna turn on the waterworks?

“Yeah well…” Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “It sounds better than ‘Roberta.’ Sorry Bobby.” He took a quick glance and saw that even Bobby was rubbing suspiciously at his eyes. 

“No, no, ‘Maria Samantha Winchester,’ that’s a good name, son,” Bobby said with a sniffle.

Dean looked back down at the newly christened Maria, suddenly embarrassed and a lot choked up himself.

Maria had sat calmly through the drama, happy now that she was with him and just so damn trusting. When Dean offered her his thumb, she gripped him solidly and he gripped her back just as tight.


	4. Chapter 4

Life sped up after Mari. She still needed him just as much, but now it seemed like _everything_ needed him.

Bobby started researching feverishly while Dean took over most of the operations at the salvage yard. It wasn’t an ideal setup—business wasn’t _that_ good, and if Bobby had really needed an employee, he would have already hired one. But the list of questions they had for the angel, because they were all sure he would be popping up again, started at three pages long and Bobby added more every day.

The work at the yard also let Dean feel less like a freeloader, which he _was,_ but only until he could scrounge up some legitimate work. Credit card scams and hustling were out of the picture since he wouldn’t be leaving town anytime soon. Plus, he didn’t want to mess up his new, squeaky clean identity: Dean Winchester, born in South Dakota, widowed, father of one.

With Sam helping, Bobby figured out devil’s traps pretty quickly, so the three of them spent a long day painting them onto the floors and ceilings, and they all slept a little easier that night. Sam took copies of the patterns with him when he left for California.

Sam hadn’t been entirely sold on the idea of going back to school, but between Dean yelling at him _and_ Bobby joining in, he’d caved. Dean was still worried about him though, so at first, he called every two days, until Sam finally got fed up and limited him to once a week.

“You know, this wasn’t what I imagined when I made you promise to call,” Sam said during one of their now routine phone calls. 

Dean, who was on speaker, ignored him in favor of yelling at Sam’s friend Zach. “Look dude, just get over this chick. No matter how great her tits are, if she needs you to buy dinner for her poodle too, it ain’t worth it.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Zach retorted, “I’ve seen your picture.”

“I’m telling you, that has nothing to do with it! Look, you’re letting her walk all over you. Unless she’s looking for a sugar daddy, nothing makes a woman wanna bang you less!” Dean said, exasperated.

“Okay—I’m cutting you two off now,” Sam interrupted loudly.

Dean kinda wanted to yell some more but didn’t protest when Sam hung up. The side effect of calling so often was that people picked up on it, and now Dean knew all of Sam’s friends. Though _honestly_ , these kids. Zach was Sam’s age, but Dean was pretty sure Sam had _never_ been that young. Then again, Sam had been the new kid in school about three hundred times, and that tended to toughen a guy up. It occurred to him belatedly that, in many ways, Sam was probably just as out of place at Stanford as Dean would be.

At first, Dean called and they talked about Mari. Dean would tell stories about catching Bobby playing peek-a-boo, and Sam would ramble on about developmental milestones, because _of course_ he was reading up on this, and “Dean, are you tracking her weight and formula intake?” He wouldn’t admit it, but he sorta loved that Sam was leaning into this uncle thing. Plus this way, he’d never have to do his own research.

Gradually, their talks branched out. Dean learned about Sam’s friends and started yelling at them. Sam retaliated by being a giant busy body.

“Been thinking about fixing up Bobby’s shed,” Dean had said last week. The shed was an old, single room building, but it had lighting, the walls were insulated, and it was big enough to fit a queen-size bed. “Maybe move me and Mari out there, let Bobby get a good night’s sleep.”

“Uh… I thought that place didn’t have running water?”

“Yeah, well, there’s a hose that goes out that direction, I could rig up a tank or something.”

“Right,” Sam said skeptically, but dropped it.

Except the next day, Bobby had scowled at him and said, “Don’t move into the shed, you idjit.”

But tattletaling aside, it was… really good. He and Sam hadn’t talked like this since… maybe ever. When Sam was little, if Dad wasn’t around, Dean had to be the adult and Sam got to be the kid. And later, when Sam was old enough for it not to matter so much, things were tainted because Sam hadn’t been happy, not with hunting or life on the road or Dad, and Dean… hadn’t been on his side, he thought now with a guilty pang.

Dad was the one subject they didn’t touch. Sam didn’t bring him up, except to confirm that no, Dean still hadn’t heard from him. As for himself, Dean couldn’t believe that Dad had kept secret that a _demon_ was after Sam. It was risky as hell not telling Sam when he was alone at Stanford, and wouldn’t it have been easier for all of them to keep an eye out? He wasn’t sure what he could say if they had a fight about Dad right now, so he was glad enough to let the matter pass.

“So listen,” Sam said near the end of June, “I was thinking I’d come out next week, give you guys a hand—”

“Didn’t we already have this fight, Sam?” Dean interrupted. “You’re staying there. And if you’re not getting straight fucking A’s, I’m gonna kick your ass.” Seriously, this was _not_ the side of the argument he ever thought he’d be on, and he couldn’t believe he had to keep arguing it.

“I’m not talking about quitting school,” said Sam, annoyed. “The summer semester’s only two months. I could spend July and August there, help out with the research and Mari.”

“Oh,” said Dean, a little dumbfounded. “You wanna come back?”

“Oh my God, you’re the most emotionally stunted person I’ve ever met!”

“Hey, not all of us braid our hair and watch chick-flicks, _Samantha_.” And yeah, Dean had seen enough _Oprah_ to know that he _maybe_ had some abandonment issues. But still, it wasn’t like Sam didn’t _know_ that.

“Yeah, whatever jerk, I’ll call you when I get in,” Sam said, and hung up before he could get the last word. Dean scowled at the phone and slunk off to cuddle Mari.

* * *

Dad was an issue. Dean kept leaving him voicemails, and Dad kept ignoring them. The only reason Dean knew he was alive was because the inbox didn’t get full. That, and he’d sent Dean a text message with coordinates for a case a couple weeks back. The man didn’t have the fucking decency to answer his _son,_ but that sure as hell didn’t stop him from issuing orders, Dean thought acidly. He’d passed the case to Bobby to pass onto another hunter.

Dean didn’t think he would be able to fully relax until they’d heard from Dad. He didn’t want to mention Mari over the phone, so four months later, she was still a secret. He wasn’t sure how to get Dad to listen to him and _not_ immediately condemn her, but the longer this dragged on, the more Dad would _feel_ like he was hiding something—the hypocrite—and the tougher it’d be. But until then, Mari was growing, and Dean was working at Singer Salvage and the local auto shop and coming home to research _Enochian_ with Sam and Bobby. Life kept coming.

Dean was even hunting again. He’d stopped since the angel, but in mid-August, Bobby mentioned a case— “Sounds like a poltergeist, it’s a few hours out, you’d be back in a day”—and Dean had almost sprinted to his car. He’d been itching for a hunt, but then he’d remembered being eight and terrified when Dad had left him alone overnight with Sam for the first time, and fuck, what would happen to Mari if he died? Sam must have seen something in his face though, because he stopped him before he could refuse and said seriously, “Neither of us can afford to get rusty,” and that was that.

It had put a bit of a damper on things, but now, driving back to Bobby’s after a cakewalk salt-and-burn, Dean was practically _giddy_ and even Sam had loosened up and was speculating on Mari’s origins.

“Just saying, some alternate version of you probably slept with a dryad, so I wouldn’t be so quick to judge—”

“No way. _No_ version of me, alternate or not, banged one of those tree critters,” Dean insisted.

“You can’t know that for sure—” continued Sam, the little shit.

“That’s not what Mari _is._ If anything, alternate me banged some sexy fairy chick.” Though privately, Dean was pretty sure that hadn’t happened either.

“Have you ever _seen_ a sexy fairy?” said Sam, smirking. “Because the ones I’ve seen, distinctly unsexy.”

“Have you seen _Mari_ lately?” These days she was so freaking adorable she deserved her own diaper commercial. Sam definitely agreed—Dean had caught him more than once sneakily snapping photos, the sappy dork. “Whatever I slept with, she must have been fucking gorgeous,” Dean said confidently, guiding the Impala up the drive to Bobby’s house.

Sam grinned. “I guess she’d have to be, to make up for your ugly mug.” Then he looked up at the house and stiffened.

Bobby was standing out front holding Mari with his left arm. In his right hand, he had his pistol, and it was pointed right at John fucking Winchester.

* * *

“Who’s the kid?” Dad asked. He sounded casual, but he didn’t let Bobby’s gun out of his sight. Then he noticed Sam as he and Dean got out of the car. “Sam? What are you doing here?” Dad looked tense, reminding Dean of a caged cat he’d seen once that had wanted desperately to bite someone, if only they’d undo the lock. Dean didn’t want Mari anywhere near him right now.

“Bobby, can you take her inside?” he asked quietly. Mari had already been crying, but now she started _screeching_ when she noticed Dean and he made no move to get her. It hurt, but he had to deal with Dad first.

Bobby took a long look at the three of them, then grunted and said, “Get him off my property when you’re done,” and stomped inside and locked the door behind him. Mari’s crying got fainter as they moved farther into the house.

“What the hell did you say to Bobby?” Dean asked. Sam moved to stand beside him, and Dean could practically feel him getting ready to explode, two hundred pounds of coiled violence.

“Bobby’s still angry from the last time I was here. Nothing to worry about,” Dad said dismissively. “Now what the hell’s going on, and who’s the kid?” he demanded.

“That was Mari,” Dean said steadily, though inwardly he was seething. Same old Dad, demanding answers but giving nothing back. Not like he went months without calling or anything, he thought sarcastically. He knew it would only make things worse, so he bit back a barb and just said, “She’s mine.”

“You got someone pregnant?” Dad sounded almost indignant, as if he’d expected better.

Dean _didn’t_ roll his eyes, but he was getting pretty damn tired of people assuming he didn’t know how to use a condom. Sure, he knew how it looked, and it was way more likely than _delivered via monster-stork_ , but coming from Dad, the accusation got his hackles up.

“Not quite,” Dean said, forcibly calm, and told him.

Dad didn’t take it well.

“And you fucking adopted it?” he exploded when Dean stopped talking. “Dean, it’s not a baby, it’s a trap, and you’ve seen its teeth, but you went and stuck your foot in anyways!”

“We’ve tested her with silver, salt and holy water—”

“You know those tests aren’t perfect, and if the dryads think it’s that important, then who knows what it’s vulnerable to,” Dad interrupted.

“If I wanted to kill her, I’d just leave her alone for a day. Dad, she’s _harmless_ ,” Dean said, his voice rising.

“Maybe for _now._ And you can’t _know_ that!” Dad shouted. “With what that ‘angel’”—the sarcasm was scathing— “was saying, she’s probably a demon!”

Sam hadn’t said anything yet, but he suddenly _erupted_. “Yeah, let’s talk about demons, Dad. Why didn’t you tell me what that demon did to me?”

Dad looked startled. “Who told you—” he started, then stopped himself. “What else did that _angel_ say?” he demanded.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Sam sounded shockingly vulnerable in that moment, and Dean wished he could send him inside with Mari. But Sam already had his answer, he didn’t actually need Dad to confirm it.

Dad started, “Sam. We’re not talking about that—”

“Yes, we are! You didn’t warn me! You let me endanger _everyone_ I cared about! _Why?_ ” Sam demanded.

“I was trying to protect you!” Dad yelled. “I was gonna kill that demon before you ever needed to know!”

“No, no, that can’t be it,” Sam said, shaking his head. “You’ve _never_ advocated ignorance as a defense. That can’t be why.”

Dad seemed at a loss for words. “I… I’ve kept a lot of things from you boys, and maybe that wasn’t right—”

“That’s not an _answer_. Dad, just tell me, please, ‘cause the only thing I can think of—” Sam broke off.

Dean stared at Sam, who looked like he didn’t know whether to scream or to cry, and then at Dad, who wouldn’t look either of them in the eyes… and then he got it. No… _no way._ “You… you didn’t want to give away an advantage in case you had to put down Sam,” Dean said woodenly. And then maybe _he_ was crying, because his voice came out weird and broken— “You would have _killed Sam?”_

“No!” Dad yelled. “Sam, Dean, listen to me! I didn’t _want_ to. That’s why I’ve pushed so hard to find this son-of-a-bitch, it’s why I’ve pushed you _both_ so hard!”

“ _That’s_ why?” said Dean brokenly. “That doesn’t make any sense if Sam’s the _enemy_. Were you planning on making _me_ kill him if you couldn’t?”

“Of _course not,_ Dean. Haven’t I been telling you your whole life to look after Sammy?” Dad ran a hand through his hair, looking wrecked. “I—I didn’t handle this well, but you boys can see what’s happening, can’t you? This is the _angel’s_ doing, the _kid’s_ doing. They’re dividing us up.”

“The kid doesn’t even talk! No Dad, that was you and your fucking secrets,” Sam spat bitterly.

Sensing he’d lost Sam, Dad looked imploringly at Dean instead. “Son, you’ve got to get rid of it,” he said with perfect confidence. “Something just like that kid killed your _mom.”_

“ _Dad—”_ Sam started viciously, but Dean cut him off.

“How do you know, Dad?” Dean asked.

“I know because it’s a _monster._ It might look innocent now, but you can’t trust it,” he said urgently. “I taught you that.”

Sam swore, “You’re fucking paranoid,” but Dean asked bluntly, “So, what? I just take her out back and shoot her?”

Dad winced, but offered, “If you can’t, I can—”

Dean was still wearing his gun. It was pointed at Dad before he even thought about it. “Don’t you ever threaten her again.” He hadn’t known his voice could get so cold. A very distant part of him wondered if he’d ever look at Dad again without hearing those words.

“ _Dean._ I’m trying to protect you.” Dad said hoarsely. “ _Both_ of you,” he added to Sam, who looked murderous.

“I know you think you are. But if you try to kill her, you’d better kill me, too. Or I’ll hunt you down, ‘cause that’s how you raised us.” Dean was done with this.

Dad didn’t say anything else, just slumped and closed his eyes. He looked like the fight had gone out of him.

“Get the hell away from my brother. And stay away from my kid.” Waving Sam ahead of him, Dean turned away and went to find his kid.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean held Mari and didn’t let go for what felt like hours. He paced around the guest room, pressing kisses to her tear-stained face and humming the best of Led Zeppelin. He didn’t let go even when she finally drifted off. Bobby offered to take her at some point, but he shook his head.

He needed to go find Sam, but he couldn’t. Not just yet. Not with his head buzzing and uncertain and _betrayed._

Dad taught him to read, he remembered. He must have been around seven. But when it became obvious that he hadn’t been in any school long enough to really learn, Dad sat him down one afternoon, just the two of them while Sam was with Pastor Jim, and went through _Green Eggs and Ham_ with him twice.

Later, _Green Eggs and Ham_ became Sam’s favorite book, probably because Dean read it over and over to him. And when it was Sam’s turn to learn to read, Dean sat him down with more Dr. Seuss and made him sound out the letters.

Sam was rightfully furious with Dad, and so was Dean. But more than that, he was hurt, and he didn’t want to fight about Dad, or curse him, or even think about him.

Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow he’d go find Sam.

But the next day, Sam found him first. Dean had Mari in a sling and was out in the yard leaning against the hood of the Impala, face tilted back towards the balmy late afternoon sky.

“Sorry,” Sam said, “I know this is tough for you too. You and Dad were… well.” Sam’s eyes were red, and he shuffled awkwardly, hands stuffed into his pockets, but he didn’t look like he was going to have breakdown, so that was something. That, or he’d already had his breakdown.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “I’m not the one Dad lied to for twenty years, Sammy.”

Sam huffed and said, “No, but you were a lot closer to Dad than I was. He raised you. You raised me.” It was just like Sam, Dean thought, to cut right to the heart of a matter. Sam leaned on the hood next to him and reached out to tickle one of Mari’s feet. They were quiet for a long while.

“What happens now?” asked Sam eventually.

He probably wasn’t expecting much of an answer, but Dean had been thinking about this ever since he decided to take on Mari. “We… keep on,” he started slowly. “Bobby will keep researching. We’ll figure out the wards we need and how to kill demons. You go back to school, and we’ll go hunting in the summers. And when she’s old enough, we’ll take Mari with us.”

“You’re going to teach her how to hunt?” Sam asked cautiously.

“Don’t gotta choice,” Dean said a bit bitterly. He had it on good authority that Mari was going to be something special, and that meant a whole slew of things that might be after her, not to mention all the human hunters that weren’t cool with part-human, part-not-human hybrids. Security measures were high on the list of things they needed to talk to the angel about.

But whatever defenses they cobbled together, he was still going to have to train her. Teach her how to shoot a gun and win a scuffle and salt her windows. And if she hated it, like Sammy did? Well, he’d have to make her learn anyways. He had the same options now that Dad had twenty years ago. Dean remembered Dad arguing about training with Sam, all “it’s for your own good” and “that wasn’t a suggestion” and “I didn’t ask for your damn opinion.” God, he hoped he didn’t become that.

Wasn’t it ironic that it was now, when he could barely stand to think about the man, that he understood Dad the most? A tiny, secret part of him that would never see the light of day even understood what it was like to be afraid not just _for_ his kid, but _of_ her.

Thankfully, Sam didn’t press. Some days, Dean was painfully grateful for all the things Sam let him get away with not saying. Instead he asked, “You going to miss not being on the road?”

“Don’t got a lot of choice there either, Sam. It took us three days to get from Missouri to here, and I damn near lost my mind.” Dean was pretty resigned to putting down roots. He was a realist, and that godawful drive had been convincing. He’d miss it, but not as much as he would have a couple years ago. It hadn’t really been the same without Sam and Dad.

“I know, but when she’s older?”

Dean shrugged and sacrificed a bit of his sleeve to wipe drool off Mari’s face.

“Dad managed it,” Sam offered, and then immediately grimaced.

Dean snorted. “Yeah, ‘cause Dad had someone to do the babysitting.” He tried to imagine an eight-year-old Mari alone at one of their shadier motels, johns and druggies prowling the parking lot, and yeah, just _no_.

…On the other hand, how many lives had Dad saved?

He wasn’t sure how to balance Dr. Seuss against crumbling motels, or a life long lie against Black Sabbath blasting in the Impala with the windows rolled down. It was a fool’s errand even trying, but he knew he’d never stop.

“I’m gonna call him,” Dean said abruptly, half defiant. “It’s not that I forgive him, but there’s intel we’ve got that he should have.” Sam didn’t say anything, and he hoped he wasn’t rubbing salt in a wound. “Sam. I can’t give up on Dad. I know a lot of what he did was fucked up. But not all of it. He was right a lot, too.”

Sam rubbed at his eyes and smiled crookedly. “Yeah, I know. It’d be easier if he wasn’t.”

“He—he got a pretty raw deal. Dead wife, young kids…” He’d used these excuses before, and they felt thin. Didn’t mean they weren’t true, though.

Now Sam was awkward again, scuffing the ground with a shoe and looking anywhere but at Dean. “Dean, did you ever… resent all the time you spent raising me?”

“What—?” Dean turned sharply to Sam and grabbed at his chin. “Sammy, look at me.” Waiting to make sure he had his full attention, he said, “Sam, no. I never resented you.”

“Oh,” said Sam in a small voice. He blinked a bit suspiciously. “Thanks.”

Sam was a bit wobbly, so Dean pulled Mari out of her sling and passed her over. “Here, hold her,” he said, “she’ll make you feel better.” Mari squawked a bit but settled easily enough; Sam was her second favorite person in the world, tied with Bobby.

“Dean, you can’t just use her as a therapy aid,” Sam exclaimed.

“Don’t see why not, she’s working.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but he did look better for having a cuddle, so there, Dean thought smugly.

Another long pause. This time while they watched the sun set. Dean was thinking of heading back in when Sam suddenly blurted out, “I told Jess about hunting. I was trying to break up with her, and she kept calling me a moron—”

“I like her already.”

“—and it came out.”

“…She believe you?”

“Sort of.” Sam gave a clumsy laugh. “At least enough to not call me crazy. She saw some things when her grandmother died.”

“That’s great, Sam. Are you two…?” He leered suggestively.

“Eugh, please never make that face, Dean.” Sam pulled out bitchface #3, which was less constipated and saved for lesser offences. “It’s… I don’t know. It’s still not safe.”

Dean watched Mari trying to play patty-cake with Sam’s face, and Sam trying to bump her hand with his nose, smiling faintly. She deserved people like Bobby and Sam in her life. Maybe Dad was just better at everything than him, but Dean didn’t know where he’d be right now if he hadn’t had their help. And Sam was sorta his kid, Sam deserved people too.

“You should bring her here,” he said. “I mean, not right away. For one, there’s nowhere for her to sleep unless we _do_ fix up the shed. But one day, if we can get things secure…” Dean shrugged.

Sam looked surprised. Then he grinned broadly. “Thanks Dean.”

* * *

“You know Bobby’s got a list of questions for you, right?” Dean wasn’t surprised to see the angel again, but did it have to be in the parking lot of a grocery store while he was covered in grease from his second job and carrying shopping bags full of diapers and formula?

“Yes,” the angel said guilelessly. “But I wanted to see you.”

Well then. He really knew how to make a guy feel special. Dean finished loading the trunk and eyed the angel keenly. He looked harmless enough, even if the lore they’d dug up suggested he really, really wasn’t. “You want to talk? Get in,” he said, unlocking the passenger side door.

The angel didn’t object, running a hand reverently along the side of the car. Kinda surprising, but Dean couldn’t say he disapproved.

“What’s your name?” Dean asked as he backed the car out of the parking lot. “I promise, no summoning.”

“Cas.”

“Cas,” Dean repeated. “That doesn’t sound very angelic.”

“It’s a nickname. A very dear friend gave it to me.”

“Huh. Didn’t know angels had friends.”

“Most of us don’t. I… greatly value the few I have,” Cas said.

“You know, everything you say just leads to another ten questions. You should work on that.”

“Ah,” Cas said, and winced slightly. “I am sorry if our last conversation was… difficult.”

“Yeah, that last conversation sucked,” Dean said. “You gave us way too much information, _and_ nothing about Mari. That’s some talent, dude.”

“It’s difficult for me to know what to share. I’ve changed a lot of things, hopefully for the better, but it means that some of my information just isn’t relevant anymore,” Cas offered as explanation.

Dean glared at him. “See, that right there—that was you making me have ten more questions. Hell, _twenty._ ” He grumbled, but waived the angel off when he looked like he would apologize again. “S’okay. I’m gonna sic Sam on you when we get to Bobby’s. Besides, I think I figured it out.”

Carefully looking at him out of the corner of his eye, Dean said, “Mari’s part angel, isn’t she? That would make her a Nephilim?” Cas seemed surprised, but not murderous, so Dean kept talking. “You said the tree dudes thought she was a big damn deal, and then you told us about a war between heaven and hell. So I figured, she’d have to be something badass, right, to tip the scales? I guessed either angel or demon, and you don’t seem the type to hang around demons.”

Cas looked unbearably fond. “You’ve always been so intuitive, Dean. How much of that explanation did you come up with after you realized she was a Nephilim?”

Dean rolled his eyes in disgust. “Dude, that’s another ten questions! _And_ major stalker vibes.”

Cas chuckled softly. “Mari is part angel,” he confirmed, “but it might be a misnomer to call her a Nephilim. Her conception was somewhat… unique. The only other Nephilim I knew well could heal when he was still in the womb. Mari’s awareness seems to be developing more slowly. I don’t think she will be so… dramatic.”

“Well, that’s good,” said Dean a little lamely. He supposed he was glad he wouldn’t have to deal with Mari _healing from the womb_ , because _holy shit._ “How’s her, uh, awareness?”

“Limited. But she is safe and content,” Cas said. “I’ve set wards at the salvage yard to hide her from other angels, and I’ve asked the dryads to patrol against other dangers.”

Dean snorted. “You’re gonna have to take that up with Bobby and hope he doesn’t shoot you.” But that raised another damn question. “Why’d you give her to me if she’d be safer with you?”

“Because she’s yours,” Cas answered simply. “And she deserves a father.” There was some bitterness there that Dean didn’t understand, but he didn’t pry. He had enough daddy issues of his own. “I believe,” Cas said slowly, “that in the next few years, the world will need every Winchester it can get.”

* * *

Back at Bobby’s house, both Sam and Bobby predictably lost their shit at their angelic guest. Eyeing the clock, Dean realized they’d been interrogating him for two solid hours and were still going strong. Cas had started staring longingly out the window and Bobby was eyeing a length of rope, so Dean prudently disappeared before the smiting started.

Like he did about a dozen times everyday, he went to check on Mari. It was late, but Mari was still awake, lying quietly in her crib. Dean picked her up and got a whiff of her baby smell, soap and formula and comfort. “So, the good news is, Cas says you’re no more evil than any other baby, which is plenty evil enough, thanks.

“The bad news… it sounds like things are gonna get rough.” And damn, what a conversation to be having with a five-month-old, he thought bitterly. “But you’re gonna have help, lots of it. Cas is on your side, and he’s wrangled together some kind of dryad army, and those things are _freaky,_ so I bet they’ll be a big help. And me, Sam and Bobby will be here. Now, we don’t have special powers, but we’ll be here. Especially me.”

Dean had spent his whole life trying to be alive in every moment, dodging death another day, month, _year_. He’d had some pretty good success with that, and it really wasn’t a bad way to live. But it didn’t leave much for the future.

Mari though, Mari was all future. Mari meant that life wasn’t just one moment at a time, but _all_ of them, laid out one after another. Mari meant wanting things, not for himself, but for her, because just like Sam, she deserved better.

He thought about the future stretching ahead of them. Maybe he and Mari could drive down to Stanford for Sam’s graduation. Maybe Sam could work things out with his girlfriend, and he and Mari could dance at their wedding. Maybe Dad could take her fishing, and Bobby could teach her Latin. Maybe Mari would love cars and they could build one together for her sixteenth birthday. He thought of all the people he loved best loving each other and _wanted._

Dean closed his eyes and took deep breath. “We’re in this together, kiddo. Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everybody who made it all the way to the end! 
> 
> I had a great time writing this and working through the awkward family conversations which were really the reason I started this story. Hope you enjoyed it, too.


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